


Physicality & Spirituality

by honeybun, Sabou



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Bears, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nature, Twink, Unspoken Love, monasterial life, soothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22321672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabou
Summary: Diarmuid is sent out to complete a difficult task which he can‘t seem to finish on his own - how fortunate that laybrother David is as loyal as his own shadow.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Physicality & Spirituality

It’s a little farther to this particular well, but Diarmuid likes the walk. The old stone is cool to touch and the edges have wildflowers cropping up around it. 

Diarmuid looks down and sees nothing but black, even the empty silence echoes down. He lowers his bucket, and when he hears a splosh he waits a little longer, and then slowly pulls it back up. 

For some tasks he likes this cool water, he finds it much more effective with some of his work - his balms won’t separate, and his pot will come to a clear boil, no scum rises to the top. This water is from deep in the island, and it’s as cold as a glacier. 

He labours to pull the bucket up, and inevitably gets some water on his robes, but there’s little he can do about that. One of the other brothers would have the strength to pull it up without effort, not spilling a drop. But Diarmuid has recognised his short fallings and sees them for what they are, less weaknesses and more difference which he isn’t especially ashamed of. 

It takes two hands to carry the bucket now, and his long journey is almost instantly a regret in his mind. He better not spill anymore otherwise it won’t be worth it. He moves slowly and tries to balance, looking down at the bucket and then up at the path, but inevitably this cannot last forever. Diarmuid is staring down at the bucket trying to make sure he doesn’t disturb the water, and his foot catches on a loose pebble in the path. 

He goes flying, as does the water and the bucket which only just misses his head as it bounces with a clang against the pebbles across the path. 

He doesn’t have much chance to whimper until a strong pair of hands are around his waist and a low grunt sounds in his ear. 

‘I was watching it to make sure-‘ another grunt as David turns him around and pats him down. Frown very prominent on his brow, Diarmuid a little shaky from his fall. Knees feeling a little scraped and robes sticking to him unpleasantly. 

Diarmuid is close to sniffling and crying, he always seems so close to his emotions around David - but he just about holds off when David strokes a hand over his forehead. David tuts, his well formed lips turn up in a small smile when Diarmuid snivels and pouts. 

David takes him back to the well, all while Diarmuid limps a little, clinging to David’s brown shirt. David waits for him, careful and patient. When Diarmuid sits down on the stone David immediately reaches for his ankle which he gently turns this way and that. When he nips the back tendon with his finger and thumb he seems satisfied enough, and pushes Diarmuid’s robe up a little to examine his scraped knee. 

This takes more scrutiny, and while Diarmuid goes sleepy watching David examine him, David licks his thumb and rubs it against the faint red lines on Diarmuid’s skin. Diarmuid turns his head and blushes at this, of course. David is always so intimate and close, like he doesn’t know it makes Diarmuid’s stomach hurt. 

‘Where’d you come from?’ he hadn’t stopped to ask that, somewhere in between the shock of falling and the delight of seeing David he had forgotten that David had appeared out of nowhere and scooped him up. 

David looks up at him and jerks his head in the direction of the forest, a small leather pack bag and some strung up rabbits lay close to where Diarmuid fell. 

‘Oh I see, did you hear me?’ David smiles and nods, hands now rubbing Diarmuid’s foot. 

Diarmuid wonders quite confidently if David had sensed him somehow, and followed him. Stranger things had happened, and that particular occurrence was not unfamiliar between them. 

David taps the side of Diarmuid’s foot and slips his shoe back on. He holds it a little longer and rubs a thumb over the shallow graze on his knee. 

Diarmuid watches as David does as he did a few minutes ago, lowers down the bucket, and quickly and smoothly brings it back up again. With one hand he picks it up, and then bends to pick up his bag and his catch for the day. Diarmuid has to startle himself out of his daze when David looks meaningfully at him, waiting on the path. 

‘Oh! Yes!’ Diarmuid skitters to his feet and David just about puts out another hand to catch him when he almost falls over again. Diarmuid’s burning cheeks remain for the rest of the journey as he - sensibly and carefully - walks the length of the forest with David, back to the edges of the monastery and to the safety of his kitchen. 

Diarmuid waits at the door, David looks down at him, his pretty curls cover part of his eyes. 

‘Do you need somewhere to skin them?’ Diarmuid asks carefully, nodding towards the rabbits strung up in David’s fist. 

A nod and David is on his table, hunting knife in one hand while Diarmuid places a bowl to his right. They work like that in silence, Diarmuid continuing on with his herbs and melting bees wax. 

After a little while Diarmuid brings David a bowl of warm water which he washes his hands with, now covered in ribbons of red. David puts his feet up on a pew across from him. Diarmuid fiddles with something in his hand and then raises his eyes to the stars, hands wringing and feet forcing him to turn and go to David. 

Without a word he takes up David’s hands and begins to rub balm into them. They’re clean, and so warm. Like the energy of the sun courses through them. He often feels that way about David, the sun running through him and bursting forth from his chest. The callouses on David’s palms are homes for Diarmuid’s seeking fingers, kneading and rubbing away. With time, David lets his head lay back and he closes his eyes.

This is a rarity, to see the man off guard, asleep and vulnerable. Diarmuid realises after a moment that he’s stopped massaging and is now just gently holding David’s hands in his. David’s thumb strokes across the back of Diarmuid’s pale hand every once in a while, in time with the beat of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written by my favourite person in the world honeybun on AO3 mwah mwah


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